Game Over

by Adele Parks

  I walk into my office, which is awash with flowers and champagne. Good news sure does travel quickly. I had expected to be doused in congratulations and good wishes. After all, nearly everyone at TV6 is scared of me and therefore they try hard to ingratiate themselves. But I never calculated a result as big as this. I’m delirious, but I know that it is essential that I appear unmoved.

  ‘Where should I put these flowers?’ asks Fi.

  ‘Anywhere.’ I casually read the cards. There’s one from Josh and Issie. It reads, ‘You are an unscrupulous, overly ambitious, single-minded exploiter. Well done. Love, your best friends.’

  I grin. There is another from Bale. It reads, ‘Big things get bigger very quickly.’

  ‘You are so profound,’ I mutter.

  ‘I’ll crack open this bubbly, shall I?’ asks Fi. She’s holding a bottle of vintage Veuve Clicquot.

  ‘If you like. As long as you understand that this isn’t a celebration.’

  Her smile vanishes. ‘Isn’t it?’ She is genuinely dumb-founded.

  ‘No, it isn’t. We need to see the overnight runs and also the log call book before we can really celebrate. In fact, I think I’ll go and sit in the log room now to talk to the duty manager.’

  ‘But I’ve booked Bibendum. The team’s looking forward to it. They’ve worked so hard over the last eight weeks.’

  It’s true we’ve all worked regular fourteen-hour days.

  ‘On whose budget?’

  She’s crushed. She’s silent. I relent. ‘OK, you guys go along and I’ll catch you up. If the news is good, I’ll pay. If it’s not, I’ll pay.’

  Sometimes I’m nice like this but it’s just to confuse them.

  I make my way through the rabbit warren of corridors, leaving the sound of popping champagne corks behind me. I stumble past piles of A4 paper and mountains of clip files (the paperless office is a figment of management consultants’ imaginations). I note dozens of plastic crates that haven’t been unpacked in the twenty-four months that we’ve been here. I wonder if someone knows something that I don’t. As I approach the normally silent log room, where all complaints and compliments are handled, I am struck by a general buzz of activity.

  I wake up with an aching back and neck, a furry mouth and a fuzzy brain. Not enough sleep. It’s a huge effort, but I force concentration. I establish the following facts: I’m not in a bed, my own or a stranger’s; I’m not hung over, but there is a glob of saliva on my desk where my head has been. I consider that this is one of the reasons I’m careful about intimacy. Imagine if I had woken up with the man of my dreams, if such a thing existed, and there had been a string of saliva on the pillow. It would certainly put him off. Far too human. However, such speculation is irrelevant, as my pillow last night was a box file, my bed companion a portable computer. I try to think it through. I’m here because—

  The phone rings. I reach for it and automatically chant, ‘Cas Perry, TV6. Good…’ – I hesitate and check my watch. It’s 7.15 a.m. – ‘morning,’ I confirm, confident that it is morning, but I’m less sure why anyone would be calling me at this hour.

  ‘Thank God,’ says Josh.

  ‘Oh, hi,’ I mutter, reaching for my fag packet. I light up and inhale. The nicotine hits me behind the eyeballs. That’s better.

  ‘We were so worried. Where the hell have you been?’

  ‘Hey, don’t come on all marital with me,’ I laugh. ‘I’ve been here all night. Did you see the programme?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Wasn’t it brilliant?’ The tar and bad stuff have helped. I now know why I slept at my desk. ‘We were taking calls all night. I took the last one at 4.45 a.m. The lines were jammed. TV6 has never seen anything like it!’

  ‘Lots of complaints, then?’ asks Josh sympathetically.

  ‘Complaints, sure,’ I say dismissively, ‘but compliments too and applications to go on the show.’ I check the latest figures in the log book. ‘Two hundred and forty-seven calls!’ I do some quick mental arithmetic. ‘One hundred and thirty complaints! Can you believe it? I only have to get fifteen before I am obliged to take the programme to the ITC for reappraisal.’

  ‘So that’s good news?’ Josh asks hesitantly. He simply doesn’t get it. ‘All those complaints are good news?’

  ‘It’s caused a national outcry. It’s huge. It’s fantastic. It’s – look I can’t chat. I need to call PR – we’ll have to put out a press release. I wonder if any of the papers have picked anything up yet.’

  ‘It’s a shame you didn’t make it to Issie’s last night. We had ricotta and basil risotto, as planned.’ Josh slices through my euphoria. I suddenly remember that I had promised to go straight to Issie’s after the show. In fact, I’d begged them to meet up. I’d insisted that Issie miss her pottery class and that Josh skip his rugby practice. I’d worried that the show would be a disaster. We’d all known that if that was the case Issie and Josh would be the only people I’d be able to face.

  ‘Oh, shit. Josh, I’m sorry. Fuck, I’m really sorry. I’ll make it up to you. Both of you. I just got caught up here on the telephone lines. Shit. I’m sorry.’ This is genuine. I feel awful. There have been occasions when Issie and Josh have let me down, always due to circumstances they couldn’t control. I’ve sat endlessly staring at the clock wondering where they were. Why they didn’t call? My irritation that their supper is ruined has turned to fear as I imagine they’ve been abducted or murdered or involved in a road accident. Worse, that they are dating someone unsuitable. I know that standing each other up is a bishop sin.

  ‘I should have called,’ I add meekly.

  ‘Yes, you should have. We were worried.’ Josh can’t stay angry with me for long. ‘The risotto was ruined. I’ve had to soak the dish but the stubborn bits of cheese won’t come off.’

  I know I’m off the hook. ‘Try Fairy Liquid extra concentrated king-strength,’ I laugh. ‘Look, I’ve got to go. I’ll call you tonight.’

  ‘You’d better.’

  I can see my reflection in my computer screen. By rights I should be looking rough. Last night I secured just a few hours’ sleep. Over the past eight weeks I’ve been averaging six hours a night at best, even at weekends. I haven’t had a night out in all that time. I’ve existed largely on sandwiches from the staff canteen and double espressos from the Italian deli round the corner. I can’t remember when I last saw natural daylight or a vitamin. Either boxed or first-generation.

  And yet I look fantastic.

  Well, there is no point in my being falsely modest. I look keen and lithe and sharp and I’m glowing. I know I look like a woman who’s just fallen in love. And the reason for this, the little beauty secret, tip for the top, is that the show is a success. I rattle around in my desk drawer looking for a toothbrush and all the other necessary toiletries. I open my stationery cupboard. I keep a full wardrobe at work for all events. A few basics: trousers from Jigsaw, T-shirts from Gap, white cotton knickers from M&S. Plus a couple of Nicole Farhi trouser suits and shirts from Pink, in case I’m unexpectedly called into a big meeting. Some Agent Provocateur underwear and a number of garments that vary in their size and transparency but are reassuringly, constantly black. These are for when I get lucky. None of this is appropriate for today. I see what’s lurking behind the plastic file dividers. Eventually I select Miu Miu trousers, a slash-neck Cristina Ortiz wool jumper and Bally boots. I find a pair of clean knickers and a tiny lacy bra in my filing cabinet. I know today is my day and it’s important to look the part. I go for a brisk workout and then shower in the office gym. By 8.45 a.m. I’m back at my desk.

  Fi is in too. It looks like my budget was thrashed at Bibendum.

  ‘You look crap,’ I tell her, as I generously offer a can of Red Bull.

  ‘Thank you. You look as fresh as a daisy.’

  I graciously accept the compliment. After all, I do. ‘Was it worth it?’ I ask.

  She grins. ‘Yeah, I had a fantastic time. Or at least I think I did.’ She holds
her head steady for a moment trying, no doubt, to chase a faint memory. She gives up.

  ‘Well, that’s the main thing,’ I assure.

  ‘We went on to the Leopard Lounge. I didn’t go home – I’ve come straight in.’

  I’m impressed by her dedication. I try to ignore the brewery smells she’s exhaling and fill her in on the excitement of the night in the log room.

  ‘Sounds a gas.’ She stifles a yawn. ‘I’m glad it went so well.’ She starts to tell me some funny tale about Di getting off with Gray, and Ricky trying to pull a transvestite. I’m glad they’ve had a good time. But I’m not interested. I know I’ll lose most of today. The team’s productivity will be severely depleted because of the necessary administration of Alka Seltzer and intravenously dripped black coffee. They’ll spend hours discussing the pros and cons of the various hair of the dog cures. Choices being Bloody Mary, a pint of Guinness, fried eggs with gin. Most importantly they will all be extremely ashamed of themselves and so tomorrow I’ll get commitment overdrive.

  My phone rings again.

  ‘Cas Perry, TV6. Good morning.’

  ‘Jocasta?’

  ‘Mum.’

  ‘How are you, dear?’

  ‘Brilliant. Mum, did you ring about the show?’ I’m thrilled.

  ‘Show?’

  ‘My show. You did watch it, didn’t you?’ I’m devastated. I can’t believe that my mother has forgotten about the show. Even when things were really hairy and busy around here, in the penultimate couple of weeks before the show went live, I’d religiously visited my mum on Sundays. I had been there in body, although, I admit, not always in spirit. I’d had to spend a lot of time on my mobile. But when I wasn’t on my mobile I had taken time to tell her all about the show. Now my mother is acting as though she’s never heard of it.

  ‘Oh yes. Erm, Best with an Ex.’ She demurely avoids the S word. Actually, I’m quite impressed with her title. I should have consulted her before the show went out. Best with an Ex is so much more subtle than Sex with an Ex. I wonder if there is any chance of a name change at this stage. My train of thought is interrupted as Mum mithers on.

  ‘I did watch the first ten minutes but then Bob, from across the road, popped over to fix that drawer that’s been sticking. You know, the third one down in the kitchen.’

  Bob, one of a small number of names that my mother floats past me on a regular basis. ‘Mrs Cooper said that there’s a buy two and get one free offer on shampoo at Boots at the moment’; ‘It’s Albert and Dorothy’s fortieth wedding anniversary on Saturday – they are having a supper’; ‘Dr Dean was asking after you’. It’s tedious keeping up with the comings and goings of these tiresome people.

  ‘I couldn’t have the television running whilst he was in the house,’ comments my mother.

  I’m disappointed, so move quickly to get her off the line. A non-offensive exit demands a certain amount of self-sacrifice. I agree to go shopping with her on Saturday. I regret the offer almost the moment the words are out of my mouth. It will be a disaster: it always is. For a start she will want to find a bargain in the Army and Navy store, whilst I will want to spend obscene amounts in Bond Street. If we do go to Bond Street, her face will settle into one of the expressions I can only assume she most favours, shocked or cross. Shocked at the prices and cross at life. I can’t bear her sudden outbursts in small boutiques. ‘That’s how much? There’s nothing to it! Look at the hemming. I could run you one up on the sewing machine.’ Which is odd, as she has never sewn in her life. Worse than her audible disgust will be her silent condemnations of my frivolity, the incessant tutting at the cashpoint as I hand over one of my magic pieces of plastic. Therefore we usually shop at the Army and Navy store, where I destroy her pleasure by continually pointing out ‘nice’ things and adding for clarity, ‘Nice for you, Mum.’ Revenge is always hers as she buys whichever monstrosity I’ve picked out and gives it to me for Christmas or my birthday. All this accepted, we regularly put ourselves through this purgatory on earth. What else can I do? She’s my mum. I wonder if I can get Issie or Josh to meet us for lunch.

  By the time I put the phone down most of the team have arrived. Except for Tom and Mark. Their status as creatives excludes them from having to appear at work at all if they are hung over. The scene is as I’d predicted: I am in an office with the walking dead. They are pale and unshaven, and they smell of booze, sweat and sex. There is a certain amount of squabbling, the excuse being that the vending machine is all out of non-dairy creamer, the real reason being the bad heads. However, the atmosphere is immediately dissolved when Ricky bursts into the office.

  ‘Have you seen the ratings?’ he screams.

  Shit, the ratings. I must have been affected by the booze fumes to allow the ratings figures to slip my mind. The number of calls we have received that have been duly logged suggests we have a stonking success on our hands. However, I can’t count my poultry just yet. Ratings are the accurate measure of exactly how many people watched the show. This is the acid test.

  Ricky is breathless. I know it is good news.

  ‘Well?’

  He grins. Enjoying his moment.

  I humour him and extend my grin a fraction wider. ‘Well?’ He hesitates again. This time I consider firing him. A girl can only be so patient.

  ‘1.4 million viewers tuned in at 10.00 p.m.’ There is a whoop. The team throw off their hangovers to cheer and shout and clap and generally behave like delinquents on E, which is not so far from the fact. I stay calm.

  ‘Well done to marketing.’ I smile across to Di and Debs. I know that the number of viewers we draw in as the initial credits roll is 95 per cent down to the marketing. Keeping the viewers for longer than five minutes is down to the quality of the programme. I am at the mercy of the remote control. It’s so undignified.

  ‘And what were the numbers after the centre break?’ I ask.

  ‘1.6 million!’

  Now I scream.

  Really loudly.

  5

  ‘Can you believe it?’ I ask Fi for the fourteenth time. The ratings went up. That means people actually called their friends and told them to tune in!’

  ‘Or something good finished on the other side,’ adds Fi.

  I scowl. ‘I’ve thought of that and checked the schedules. It wasn’t the case. Not unless you count a documentary on the hibernation habits of bugs on hedgehogs as good TV.’

  ‘Fair point.’

  ‘Can you believe it? A follow-up interview with Declan in the Sun. I’ve got to hand it to him: he’s a natural the way he worked the tabloids. And now they are begging us for the names of the people in the next shows. We’ll have to work really hard to keep the can on the interviews we’ve already got. The trick is going to be in continually surprising the mark.’ The ‘mark’ is the official name for the person we are tempting. We also call them Grouchos, stooges and victims. ‘Can you believe it’s such a success?’ I complete my circular diatribe.

  ‘Not really.’ Fi grins. I glare and she corrects herself. ‘Well, obviously it is a brilliant idea. We all knew that it would be a fantastic show. But the public isn’t always as perceptive as we’d like to imagine. There’s always a risk.’

  I’m mollified by her obvious flattery. ‘Very true. Exactly my point. Want another drink?’ I survey the debris in front of us. It’s roughly half past seven. I’m not certain. The hands on my watch have shrunk and they are randomly bending. We’ve been in this pub since four thirty. Celebrating. We have drunk my week’s calorie allowance and smoked an entire tobacco field. I’m beginning to see Fi’s more sympathetic side. In fact, I’ll definitely be buying her a Christmas pressie.

  ‘I shouldn’t, but OK then. A gin and tonic. Go easy on the tonic. Best make it slim-line, ‘says Fi as she reaches for the bowl of cashew nuts. She offers them to me but I decline.

  ‘I’m allergic.’

  This isn’t true. I’m very thin and very fit. Whenever anyone asks me how I manage this I smile and
say it’s genetic and effortless. This is, of course, bollocks, but I know that if there is anything more annoying than a thin woman, it’s a thin woman who professes that she never diets. There’s no such thing as effortlessly thin. It comes as a direct result of one or more of the following: dedication to a relentless fitness regime, being a slave to the calorie counter, drugs or an unreliable bastard of a boyfriend. I work out at the gym five times a week – minimum. I’m also an expert kick boxer, although I don’t enter competitions; it’s just for fun. I own a Z3 series BMW but cycle to work, six miles there and back every day. I club once a week and I never touch any saturated fat. In addition I indulge in every detox programme known to womankind. I can regularly be found swathed in seaweed or mud at Champney’s or the Sanctuary.

  I place the double G & (slim-line) Ts on the wooden table. Fi is chewing an ice cube thoughtfully.

  ‘Is there anything you haven’t tried?’

  I think she has telepathically understood that I’m concentrating on detox programmes. But before I tell her that I’ve never done colonic irrigation – I just can’t stand the idea of a hosepipe up my bum – she puts me on the right track.

  ‘I mean with men?’

  This is easier to answer.

  ‘I never do three in a bed.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘Yes, I think everyone’s entitled to some exclusive devotion, even if it’s between twenty minutes and a few hours.’ Not much of a moral, I admit, but one I’m faithful to.

  ‘Is there an ex in your past, then, Cas?’

  ‘No,’ I say without hesitating.

  ‘Then again you’re not on the cusp of marriage.’

  ‘Nor am I ever likely to be.’

  ‘Then how did you know the show was going to be such a success? How did you know both Brian Parkinson and Abbie would fall? And, for that matter, all the other couples that we’ve already recorded?’